10/23/03
We feel it impending on August,
And in September, we smell it
On those days when fruited trees
Barely defend us from a sky unbearably silver.
And daily, as the trees are slowly stripped bare
And their defense against the sky is weakened,
We in empathy feel naked,
Knowing we can not much longer
Hold the winter off.
We all share the doom
Though it forces us toward isolation
As, for a season,
We must shelter us apart.
I have seen the oaks crack from the weight of snow,
And squirrels have seen me build my den,
But we nod and bustle on,
In grim and solitary labor,
We repel the cold.
I hate to be the first
To break a snowy field with footprints,
But, having done, I want to be the last
To make my mark.
We all suspect we might be pioneers,
And though we weary with the trudging
That accompanies the distinction,
Having labored, we watch in hopes
That time will prove it a difficult feat.
It's not enough to survive, to thrive
Unless we do so against the odds.
All nature fears the early winter
In empathetic gloom.
We all endure in sympathetic solitude.
And the same souls who felt in unison last fall
Are almost offended to share the sunshine
That we each felt we should have earned alone.
It dimmed the pleasure of survival
To share its thinspread victory.
We want to endure together,
But to "have endured" alone.
